Prisoner
by Xoni Newcomer
Summary: My first fic. Voldemort holds someone captive. Someone about no one, not even the Death Eathers, knows. Who?


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Prisoner.

The cold winter night was dark and silent. So silent that if any living being had been wandering, it could have heard its own shadow moving. But that wasn't the case. The grounds around the Riddle House where completely deserted, as if no nocturnal animal, let alone human being, thought it was a harmless idea to put a single toe on these fields. Anybody would've said that there was a mysterious force which kept all out, as ridiculous as it could sound.

Of course, if you've asked a man or woman about that, they'd have said that they just were using their common sense staying away from a house were a band of some sort of bad people could be hiding, especially at night. Maybe some of them would've admitted that, besides, he or she disliked and avoided that house because of the strange death of the family who used to live there. But if the animals were able to speak they'd have told you something very different. Yes, animals aren't as blind as us; they always know, they always can tell when something that doesn't fit is happening. Any one of them would have been able to told you about the strange presence which kept any living soul out of the Riddle grounds, not actually forcing them to stay away, but more by telling them: 'Just dare coming nearer to me and you're dead meat. And that's just the best of what would happen to you', in a way that allowed no doubt about the dangers such a sinister warning hold.

So, the properties of the Riddle family remained dark, empty and silent. Not revealing at all the intense activity which the house was holding.

Deep inside the house an skeletal and hooded figure dressed in black robes was giving orders and instructions to other men gathered in the room. As each one of the Death Eaters received his mission, he disapparated immediately due to both his desire to please his master and his fear of being in his presence. Finally, only four of them remained in the room. Three of them involved in conversation with the Dark Lord.

"Have you understood exactly what are you supposed to do? Any questions? Howard?", Voldemort asked.

"Everything is clear, my lord. Don't worry", the first Death Eater answered.

"Arthur?"

"I've not the slightest doubt, oh Powerful One."

"Lucius?"

"All shall be done completely according to your desires, Master"

"Perfect", said Voldemort, finishing the conversation. "Dismissed."

As soon as Nott, McNair and Malfoy had disapparated, Voldemort turned to the last figure, who shivered under his gaze.

"Wormtail, I won't need you anymore this night. Go away and come back when I summon you."

"Y-y-yes, powerful D-dark M-master. A-as you w-w-wish", Wormtail stuttered before running away from the room.

Once alone, Voldemort headed toward the opposite wall and disappeared through one of the doors it had. He crossed halls, rooms and corridors, and went down some stairs 3 or 4 times. At last, he arrived to the lower basement and, after casting the Revealing spell once more to make sure nobody had followed him, he entered in a chamber which reminded a snake museum: books, paintings, sculptures, stuffed specimens, etc... He went straight to a certain corner and hissed _"Open!"_ in parselmouth. The eyes of the silhouette of a cobra which was carved there glowered yellow and a section in the wall opened, revealing a hidden vault. He went in.

The vault was completely built in a sad, grey stone. The only light was provided by two candlesticks which were flanking a pedestal made from the very same gray stone than the rest of the vault. On that pedestal laid a thin book.

Voldemort approached the pedestal and stared at the book. Without bothering looking up he snapped "Out!" and suddenly twelve dementors emerged from the shadows of the vault and slithered through the door. He paid no attention to them, there was no need. The dementors weren't any danger for him. Their loyalty was guaranteed by several means, and he didn't have any happy memories which could make them find him interesting as a prey. _"Close!",_ he hissed, again in parselmouth, and the door closed. He was alone. With the book.

He pulled out his wand and touched the book with the tip, then spoke:

"No one in the world is completely evil.

No one in the world is completely good.

Black and White don't exist; just Grey.

If it gets darker or lighter is up to you."

The book opened. In his first page there was something written in purple ink, just four words. But Voldemort's eyes narrowed when he saw them.

"Buuuf", he said, in a tone full of annoyance and disdain, while erasing the written words with a movement of his wand. By the look on his face and the way he was moving, anyone would have thought he was just swatting an unimportant fly which was bugging him. After that, he reached again inside his clothes and took out an inkwell and a quill. Voldemort dipped the quill in the red ink and started to write.

'How're you doing today?', the question never seemed polite. Even written, the sarcasm and the mocking tone these words were dripping were astonishingly evident.

Slowly, as if they were sinking in the parchment which was made the page, the words vanished. Then, a different phrase appeared the same way, but this time the ink was purple, as the words Voldemort had first erased were.

'Pretty good, in fact. Until you arrived, that is.'

Voldemort laughed. 'A little cranky we are today, aren't we? Is there something I could do to help you cool off?', he wrote.

'Yes', was the answer, 'disappear and never come back.'

'Now, now, that's not a proper way to talk to a visit, my friend. Especially if that visit is the only person you'll ever see.'

'Person? Visit? Yeah, right. Do you actually want something or you just feel in a nasty mood?'

'Oh, I just came to tell you that I have thought a perfect plan to regain my power and erase Potter and Dumbledore from this world.'

'Another one?', now it was the purple scripture's turn to 'sound' mocking, 'You've already tried three times and they have always ended kicking your butt.'

Voldemort felt his insides burning with anger at these words, and raised his wand menacingly; then dropped it, grabbed the quill again and wrote, 'This time I'll succeed, nothing can go wrong.'

'That's what you always say. Face it: you can't get the better of a kid and an old man, you _oh, Great Lord Voldemort._'

That did it. Wand in hand, Voldemort started a curse which would leave nothing of the book but dust, but he stopped just in time. He continued writing.

'No, no, that's what you'd like. The book destroyed and you gone. Nice try, but you failed.'

The purple scripture appeared a bit trembling. It was obvious that Voldemort was right and that the failure had affected the writer badly.

'I don't understand your game yet! Why don't you kill me once and for all and finish with everything? What's the point of keeping me here? I'm not useful for you in any way.'

Voldemort laughed again, he had regained the upper hand in the taunting and both knew it. 'Simply, torturing you is funny. Besides, you're a part of me after all, my dear Tom, and I'm not suicidal. Not to mention I don't know if your death would affect my powers.'

A long list of insults written in purple and directed to Voldemort appeared on the parchment. He made a face, feigning he was offended.

'Ugh. You're very rude, did you know that? Nobody would say you're my good side, or anyone good side, now that we talk about that. But then again, you aren't completely 'a good side', are you? You were almost nothing. When I killed my father, you weren't even a voice in my mind yelling at me for what I've done. Only a slight feeling of uneasiness, that's all. But I couldn't afford you, anyway. I couldn't allow myself any doubts about my acts, I had to get rid of you. Then I found the way to split a person in his two sides: good and bad. But you were so tiny. I wasn't able to make a neat division due to that, and when I forced you to separate from my main self with that spell, I had to let go some of my bad feelings along with you. We could say you're a normal guy, with good and evil in you.'

'Normal...', the purple writing was more trembling and seemed almost melancholic.

Voldemort's snake features twisted in a naughty smile. He had wanted to struck a nerve, and he had succeeded. The anger his presence caused him and the prospects of the trick to work had given Tom new forces, but the try for getting the book destroyed had been a flop and with his speech he had directed his mind to sad thoughts, these forces were gone, now, and his prisoner was broken. Voldemort lowered his quill and launched the final blow.

'Oh, sorry. I forgot. You're not normal. Normal people live in a world where there are colors to see, sounds to hear and smells to smell. They feel the warmth of the sun and the caress of the wind. They are free, they can go wherever they want. And above all, they don't have a part of them which goes around doing things they hate without them being able to do a single movement about that.'

There was no answer. Not even the smallest trace of purple ink appeared on the parchment. Voldemort wiped his mouth, some of the words he had just mentioned had left him a bad taste. The ideas they carried were too nice. But it was worth. He knew he had managed what he wanted: crush Tom's spirit till the very core. He put the inkwell and the quill inside his robes again; there was no point in continuing making fun of him now, he couldn't make him feel worse.

Voldemort closed the book, which became magically sealed again, and went towards the door. Soon he was gone, the dementors were again in their positions and everything was as if nobody had disturbed the routine of the place.

But inside the book there wasn't the same calmness. In there, a faint spirit, a shadow who once was known as Tom Riddle, or at least as part of him, was shaking in the middle of silent sobs, sobs that nobody could hear or see, sobs which no one care about. Hidden under the cover of the book, drops of purple ink started to stain the first page. No big stains, but small ones equal to the ones that tears falling on that page would make. Tears of sorrow, for the freedom he'd never know; of rage and shame, for being Voldemort's private clown; of guilt, for all the horror Voldemort had caused and which he couldn't help feeling partly responsible; and of frustration, for not being able to do something to avoid it, or at least repair it.

In the middle of his messy mind, the conversation he had just have with his other half replayed again. And again. Finally, the moment when Voldemort bragged about Potter and Dumbledore's downfall stayed, as a sun ray through the clouds. Yes, the Dark Master would try to destroy them once more, and they'd defeat him once more. And maybe, with luck, this time would be Voldemort's last battle, he'd end dead or in Azkaban. And the Ministry would confiscate all his belongings, and would find the book. Then, at the very least, they'd curse the damned book to millions of little pieces and he could rest in peace.

The thought slightly curved his faint lips in a small smile, anything was far better than his current situation. Maybe, especially if Dumbledore had a word in that, his destiny would be even better: he could be fr--

He stopped, not daring to think about that wonderful word for fear he could cry again. He gathered all the remains of strength he still had and wrapped them around that little new light. Then, slowly and hesitantly, as if showing the great effort it took from him, the four words Voldemort had erased earlier appeared again:

'I STILL HAVE HOPE'

My first fic. Well, what do you think? Are there any hopes for me? Or the best I can do with my writing skills is to lock them under 7 locks, swallow the keys, and drop the trunk in a volcano? You tell me!


End file.
